August 31:Three Woodpeckers

On my way to work this morning, I spotted a pair of pileated woodpeckers flying to a tree in the neighbor's yard. They landed on opposite sides of the trunk simultaneously, one slightly above the other.  Pileated woodpeckers have a strong, year-round pair bond, and I smiled to see them, thinking that perhaps they were re-bonding after finally having kicked out this summer's youngs.

When I got out of my car at work, I heard a pileated woodpecker calling from one of the trees nearby. My office is in the same neighborhood as my house. The woodpecker I heard couldn't have been one of the pair I just saw, and yet it would undoubtedly be in their territory--pileated woodpeckers have large territories of 200 acres or more. I wondered if perhaps it was a youngster, on its own but not ready yet to wander too far from its nesting site.

Periodically throughout the day I heard what was probably this same woodpecker calling--that crazy, Woody Woodpecker laugh. I couldn't help but think that it was yelling because it was annoyed at being ignored by its parents, who were out on a day's date at the other end of the neighborhood.

Woodpecker couple:
strengthening their pair bond now
that the young have fledged.

August 30: Mountain Ash

Lately I've been noticing mountain ash trees, both wild and ornamental, as their clusters of berries have reddened (or orange-ed) and become more obvious. Not only are mountain ash--or rowan--trees attractive, but their berries  are a big source of food for wintering birds. When I see a tree full of rowan fruits, I see a stash of future bird food just waiting for that hungry flock of waxwings or robins to descend.

A few of our neighbors have mountain ash trees in their yard. In Celtic folklore, rowan trees carry protective powers, a good thing to have at the entrance of your home. Native Americans also put the tree, which is not related to the "regular" ash tree, to good use for medicinal purposes--the berries are apparently purgative and help ease digestive tract disorders, among other things. But don't eat them unless you know what you're doing. Or unless you're a bird.

Before the leaves turn,
orange rowan fruits ripen,
ready for winter.

August 29: Last Bird in the Woods

After work I went for a trail run on Ragged Mountain, starting at the Snow Bowl. It's been a while since I've done a trail run. My lungs weren't quite up to the first stage, following the trail partway up the mountain before turning south into the woods. But once I could catch my breath, I settled in to enjoy the softness of the damp forest floor beneath my feet, the familiar earthy smells of leaf litter, mud, and moss, the punctuation marks of mushrooms after the weekend's rain, and the rocks and roots forcing me to pay attention to where I placed each foot. The recent storm had left a lot of branches strewn across the trail, as well, including one large, nut-laden beech branch.

It was only 6:00 pm but the woods were already darkening when I set out. The sun has begun to set noticeably sooner these days, with just a few days left in August. I couldn't tell if my few stumbles on my return run (it was an up/out-and-back/down route) were a result of not being able to see the shadowy trail so well or my general tiredness from bouncing off bumps and hillocks. The "come here" whistle of a pewee beckoned me onward. That was the only bird I heard so late in the day. But running that late was well worth it if just to see, as I reached the bottom of the mountain again, Bald Mountain green and glowing in the last sunlight, a lush backdrop for a field full of young soccer players.

Near the end of my run I also startled a woodchuck traversing across the ski slope. It paused to watch me for a moment, then bounded with surprising speed into the woods. Maybe instead of pretending I'm a deer or a wild cat on my trail runs, I should be emulating a woodchuck instead.

Pewee's low, clear call
summons me out of the woods
just before sunset.

August 28: Tropical Storm Warning

The wind's picking up, although the rain has diminished. We've just gotten an actual Tropical Storm Warning alert for Camden, so presumably the trees will be swaying with even more energy before the night is over. Actually, it's still only Sunday afternoon. Full daylight. But I figured I should post before things get worse in case we lose power later. While it's slowed and been downgraded from a hurricane, Irene is still one monster storm, the spiral of clouds on the radar map covering hundreds of miles. Amazing what Mother Nature can churn up, with a little added boost from global warming.

The storm really does feel tropical, too. The air is heavy, moisture-laden, warm, swept up from the Caribbean and carried here by the swirling forces of nature. Birders I know have been hitting the coast, hoping to find that Irene's brought along some tropical birds, as well. One birder friend hopes for magnificent frigatebird and brown pelican, perhaps some unusual southern terns (scroll to the very bottom of this blog post to see all his predictions). So far reports of black and Forster's terns are coming in from southern Maine, and oystercatchers further up the coast, but nothing exotic yet. Here at our house, there's a house finch in the window feeder.

I've seen photos from Vermont today that show a huge washout on Route 4 that carried utility poles down with it. Friends up and down the East Coast are posting stories of floods, washouts, wet basements, power outages, and general mayhem. Here in Camden, my triathlete neighbor just returned from his bike ride. Another neighbor just walked by, on her way to the store and back, in an outfit that didn't look at all storm-proof: heels, short skirt, thin blouse. But somewhere out there I know boats are rocking on their moorings, branches are cracking, and birds are getting blown off-course. And right here, right now, I'm feeling all that energy in the air and pacing the house like a cat.

Moon's pull and storm surge,
tugging on my very cells--
crazy energy.

August 27: Storm Prep

Lovely afternoon sunshine has finally burned off the giant fog bank that lurked atop Camden all morning. I thought about sitting out on the back porch to write this, to soak up some sun and take advantage of this last day of relative calm before Hurricane Irene arrives. But then I remembered that I'd already put all our outdoor furniture in the shed. So now I'm sitting on the back step as the sun brightens and a light summery breeze shakes the prayer flags. Although Irene is supposed to have calmed down to Tropical Storm status by the time she hits Maine tomorrow, we're still probably going to get a lot of rain--thus, the dams have been fully opened on the Megunticook River to allow the extra water to flow through rather brim over in the lake. What this means for me is that the river is running a little higher and faster than it has been for most of the summer, its loud rush a counterpoint to the breeze in the beech leaves.

No matter what kind of storm Irene turns out to be when she passes coastal Maine, the peak will coincide with the new moon high tide tomorrow night, so things should be interesting on the waterfront. While I feel our house a mile inland is safe enough--we got a new roof this spring--the trees around it always respond badly to storms, tossing branches everywhere. Just last week the tree guy came by to look at the limbs I want trimmed this fall, and I've been eyeing them all day wishing he'd been able to get to them sooner.

But really my only concern is losing power. So I've spent most of the day dealing with little tasks that potential high winds and power outages necessitate. Fresh batteries in all our flashlights (and why do we have so many, anyway?)? Check. Oil in the oil lamp? Check. Fresh candles strategically located in each room? Check. All electronic devices fully charged? Check. Laundry done? Check. All lawn furniture in the shed? Check. All hanging plants tucked away in a quiet corner of the porch? Check. Bird feeders filled for anticipated pre-storm run by the chickadees? Check. Last minute necessities like a fresh bag of tortilla chips, boxes of rice milk, blueberries, and mango licorice purchased? Check. I even succumbed to a moment of preparation panic and bought a case of bottled water. Even though we're on town water, the sight of all those almost-empty shelves in the water aisle made me feel like it was the right thing to do somehow. Everyone else was doing it, after all. And it was only $4.99, and now I feel so much more, well, prepared.

Right now, though, it's turning into a sunny summer afternoon, and other than the run on water in the grocery store and the unexpected double-header Red Sox game (because they won't be playing tomorrow), you'd never know that a big, fat, wet hurricane was hustling our way. (Well, also the arthritis in my hand is particularly bad today, but I feel like an old lady saying that: "My hand aches--must be a storm coming.") Now that I've completed our storm prep, I plan on enjoying this calm before the storm as long as I can. And we'll see what tomorrow brings.

Hurricane Irene--
before August is over,
you'll wash us all clean.

August 26: Whimbrel

I just read a story (read this!) about a whimbrel wearing a radio transmitter that was tracked as it migrated non-stop from the Arctic until it hit the outer edge of Hurricane Irene. The whimbrel, a largish shorebird with a decurved bill, is infamous for its epic migration flights, flying thousands of miles at a time without pausing for rest. This particular bird appears to have made it alive to an island in the Caribbean, which he somehow knew how and was able to get to despite being caught in a potentially disorienting hurricane. Bird migration is an awe-inspiring thing, and this story just increases the amazement factor for me (besides the fact that we can actually follow this bird on his journey thanks to modern technology). While I'll still worry about the smaller songbirds that might get caught in the maelstrom as they blithely head south over the next few days, it's somewhat reassuring and very cool to know that some of the larger birds are tougher and more resourceful than we might have thought.

Whimbrel in a storm
flies on, knows where he's going.
We track him in awe.

Update to the above linked news story posted on August 27:
"Staff at The Center for Conservation Biology say it looks as if Chinquapin made it through the storm and is okay. "We have had several locations that put the bird on that island and the collective locations and sensor data suggest the bird is fine. After that hard flight it will likely stage within this site for days before completing its migration to the northern coast of South America," says Watts. The Center, based in Virginia, is in the middle of Irene right now and so won't be able to give further updates until Sunday, "if we have power," he says."

August 25: Boat in a Storm

The sky is looking glowery and the wind's picking up. A storm's on the way, and I'm not talking about Hurricane Irene (although that storm is also apparently on its way). And with this weather report, we're about to blithely board a boat to North Haven to enjoy dinner at Nebo Lodge. The boat captain brushed off inquiries about possibly canceling the trip due to weather, so we're ready for an adventure. I just hope that after our big meal on the island, our ride back isn't more adventurous than our stomachs can handle...

"Oh God, thy sea is so great and my boat is so small." --Breton fishermen's prayer

We're small things at sea.
May the wind sing us to sleep
rocked in boat's cradle.

Update: The ride out with Equinox Island Transit was a little wet, but the sky cleared beautifully as we reached North Haven. After an excellent meal, we sped back to Rockland almost in time to miss the thunderstorm. Very dramatic to see from the water Owls Head Light and the Breakwater Light shining in the mist as lightning flashed around us and thunder rumbled overhead. And then, of course, the torrential rain, as if the spray from the boat ride hadn't made us wet enough. Truly exhilarating.

August 24: The Little Things

>My naturalist friend Kirk is particularly fond of mushrooms, slime molds, and things in-between. His Vinalhaven Sightings Reportwhich features wildlife of all kinds seen on that Penobscot Bay island, is heavy on the fungus among us. His interest (and interesting photos) has made me take a closer look at the mushrooms around me when I walk in the woods--especially in late summer when the birds are quieter so I'm not looking up all the time.

Today while hiking off-trail on Ragged Mountain I was paying more attention to the ground in front of me just to see where I was going. I was surprised by how many mushrooms dotted the forest floor, especially a tiny, bright orange mushroom that looks like something you'd see in the garden of a gnome house. It's so cute that I've photographed it on several different occasions, including today. I thought to share my photo with Kirk, who quickly responded: "The cute little orange guys are so cute that they are the cover species on George Barron's 'Mushrooms of Northeast north America' book. They are Chanterelle Waxy Caps, which are in no way chanterelles at all. They are an adorable find, and as you already know, have a solid presence in the woods this time of year. One of my favorites to find." Now that I know what they are, I'll probably photograph them more than ever.

Chanterelle Waxy Caps

I noticed other intriguing mushrooms, including a pretty lavender one that Kirk says is from the Cortinarus genus, some turkey tails (the fungus, not the bird parts), some ruffly orange ones that might have actually been chanterelles, and a big puffy white one being eaten by a slug. The "Corts," says Kirk, have a mycorrhizal relationship with trees, which is complex enough that I'm just going to send you to Wikipedia to read about it, but basically means that the mushroom and tree mutually benefit one another.Not only did I have fun spotting all these various fungi, but I learned something too.

Besides mushrooms, I also discovered other little things: quite a few Indian pipes poking up through the leaf litter here and there, bunchberry berries, a teeny yellow flower that I haven't been able to ID (some kind of dwarf aster?), spectacular patches of reindeer lichen, deer scat, a couple of turkey tail feathers (bird parts this time, not the fungus), wide, spongy beds of sphagnum moss, and, in one place, scattered clusters of black and white feathers pointing to the demise of what was once probably a black-and-white warbler.


Trees, yes, and forest,
but also, tiny mushrooms,
berries, slugs, feathers.

August 23: Brief Revival

The purple clematis that climbs up my porch railing has had its best summer ever, flourishing like never before with both greenery and blooms. I attribute its health to a tip from landscaper Tom Jackson, who told me that it needed some shade around its base. I let ferns grow around it, and instead of all the leaves dying off halfway through the flowering cycle, as had happened past summers, they're still going strong here in late August. And although the flowers have come and gone--the pretty petals all fell off several weeks ago--we noticed yesterday that the recent rains seem to have encouraged a brief revival: one fresh blossom and another just-opening bud, looking bright and fresh amid the spiky remains of all those gone-by blossoms.

One last clematis!
I'd already said good-bye
until next summer.

August 22: Just some eagles

Late yesterday afternoon we visited my sister and family at their lakeside camp. My brother-in-law, father, and two nieces were out in the little beat-up motorboat that my brother-in-law had somehow coaxed back to life, making the most of the day's dying light with one last ride. When they landed at the dock, my five-year-old niece came running up to see us. "How was the boat ride?" we asked her. "What did you see out there?" "Oh, just some eagles," she replied nonchalantly.

Shortly thereafter, as we shared hors d'oeuvres on the deck, we did indeed see a bald eagle, soaring majestically over the island directly across from us. My niece informed us that she wasn't a fan of eagles because they "look mean." As best we can tell, her only frame of reference for an eagle's facial expression is the wooden eagle sculpture that was hanging near our table at The Waterfront Restaurant when we took her out to dinner there recently. For a child, however, the devil's in the details.

What I love is that seeing "some eagles" is almost a non-event for her. I don't think I saw my first bald eagle here in Maine until I was in high school. And it was years more before I began seeing them on a regular basis. Maine's eagle population has made an incredible comeback from the days of DDT--there are over 500 breeding pairs in the state now, and the species has been federally delisted. Eagles soaring over Maine's lakes are becoming a common sight, one that I hope will remain so for my nieces for many years to come.

A wish for my niece:
may bald eagles always soar
in your summer skies.

August 21: Fire Hydrant

Dense fog has settled over the midcoast, as often happens this time of year: 100% humidity. Even the crows' cawing in the yard sounds a bit muffled. A short run left me soaking wet (not to be too gross or anything), the moist, warm air clinging to my skin, mingling with my sweat. Mount Battie was completely hidden by the mist.

This time of year, I particularly enjoy how the goldenrod in the fields glows so brightly on these muted mornings. One family along my running route mows only the lawn directly in front of their house; the rest of the yard, between the strip of lawn and the road, they let grow wild. Chipping sparrows, doves, and goldfinches seemed to enjoy this, as well, as that's where they were all hanging out today. Right now, that roadside field is rife with blooming goldenrod, made all the more stunning by the fact that the backdrop, their house, is bright red with lime green trim.

But what struck my eye the most on my little outing was, oddly, coming upon a newly painted, vividly red fire hydrant tucked away in the roadside weeds. The town has been repainting all its fire hydrants this summer in an attempt to make them more visible, and that certainly worked with this one. I must have passed it a hundred times on my runs and never noticed it amid all the surrounding greenery. In its way it was on the same fog-busting color scale as the goldenrod. And in its way, on this quiet, muggy, foggy morning, just as beautiful.

It's not a cardinal,
but this hydrant's shade of red
also makes me smile.